That suffocatingly unusual February afternoon, a large part of my paternal family and I were having lunch on the special occasion of the visit of my grandparents to Cusco who were on their way home that night and particularly of my grandfather who had reluctantly traveled a few days earlier leaving his warm, irreplaceable and temperate Abancay.
When I was nine years old, when I saw my grandfather, whom I respectfully called my father Manuel and from whom I inherited both names, I told him that I would later show him the tricks with the blue wooden spinning top that he had given me weeks ago when I was at his house and that I would also tell him a couple of jokes about Condorito that I had learned by heart last month.
During lunch I remember that the conversation focused on the carnivals that were celebrated with great euphoria and passion in those cusqueños summers and between jokes and laughter I heard that precisely that afternoon of hot and incandescent sunshine was more than propitious to exchange some buckets of water.
After lunch and waiting for some ice cream promised by my uncle, we all went to the garden and sat down on the floor for a few seconds in silence as if asleep from those bursts of mountain and summer sun. I raised my head and closing my eyes for a few seconds I could feel that the heat between yellow and reddish was seeping through my eyelids and almost to the point of falling half asleep I felt that a cold, unexpected and sudden torrent like a blow entered my neck and soaked all over my back.
I quickly looked back and saw my mother with an empty jug in her hands saying to me in a mischievous and jocular voice: Happy Carnival, son! Without thinking for a second and I jumped to my feet, I snatched that metal jug from his hands and crashed it into the floor with all my might, but not before I shouted at him with endless insults and insults that my lungs, swollen with anger and my blood in rage, pushed outwards without any control or hesitation.
After a minute of total uncontrol and before the astonished gaze of everyone, including my grandfather, I ran out of that garden totally ashamed without saying goodbye to anyone and furiously opening the door and without looking back I went home sobbing. I do not frankly remember the punishment I received after such misguided, unforgivable and unhappy behaviour towards my mother and all who were gathered there.
Three months later my grandfather was evacuated to Cusco in an emergency. On a coincidentally hot and embarrassing afternoon, almost unbreathable and slapped by those blazing gusts of the Cusco sun, I remember only going to the hospital to see him. When I arrived at the door my mother came to me and almost knelt down and squatted down and told me with her voice broken and her eyes full of tears that my grandfather had died a few moments ago.
With my eyes lost and almost staring at that merciless sun, I was stunned, without murmuring a word, without even being able to cry, squeezing my hands and with infinite powerlessness my blue spinning top that I could not show him and stammering in the air those jokes of Condorito that I could not tell him.
I remained motionless holding back that hug that I could not give her, I was chewing in rage that necessary and essential forgiveness that I could not ask her for that bitter February afternoon, and I remained keeping alone and forever that kiss that I could never give to my grandfather, my grandfather Manuel Jesus.